


Until We Bleed

by Gravity_Sun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Rough Sex, Soulless Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gravity_Sun/pseuds/Gravity_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He figured Sammy would be all roses, tender hugs and soft kisses. Chicory and lavender. But Sam. Sam was all thorns. Sam smelled like cinnamon and metal. Sharp and bitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until We Bleed

 

The rain pours outside, and the hotel room feels smaller and smaller, it's negative space wrapping around Dean, choking him. In the corner, Sam stands like a monolith, watching Dean carefully. Watching the unsteady pattern he traced across the floor. Walking over to the chair to sit, only to find the action too frustrating, moving to the bed to lay only knowing it wouldn't bring him peace. Placing his hand on the glass of the window, only to watch the rain, and make a fist, slamming it so hard even Sam jumped, afraid it would shatter, sending glass flying.

 

“Dean.” Sam says, and all Dean can think is how it doesn't sound like _his_ Sammy. This Sam's voice is different. Lower. Flatter. Deader.

 

“Don't.” Dean interrupts. “You don't get to speak.”

 

Sam gives him an annoyed look before opening his mouth to continue. “I knew what I was doing, Dean.”

 

“You almost got that girl killed!” And Dean is shouting, angry, advancing on Sam who's not moving. Who knows he doesn't have to because Dean would never do anything to this body that can't be repaired. Nothing that would break him apart so badly that Sammy couldn't be put back together.

 

“She would've helped us find the--.”

 

Dean can feel the blood rushing in his ears, hear the beating of his own heart so loud it's overpowering, drowning out everything else around him, leaving him dizzy and light headed and staring at Sam's face. At Sam's mouth, speaking words so familiar to him. About sacrificing one for the many. About using bait to catch prey. About the ends justifying the means, and his indifference to who spills blood along the way.

 

“Shut up.” Dean finally says. Hardly his best comeback, but that's all he can manage. “Shut up.” But Sam doesn't. Sam gives him one of Sammy's patented bitch faces and Dean can't take it. Can't take it because he's not Sammy. Sammy isn't here. He's roasting in Lucifer's cage and Dean can't do anything about it. Can't do anything but stare at the mammoth remnant of his body left behind without him in it.

 

Dean's hands are around Sam's damp shirt before he realizes it, bawling the material into his fists, pulling and shoving at the same time, until Sam's head is slamming into the opposite wall with a resounding crack that would have made Dean wince any other time, any other time his entire body wasn't pulsing with anger and want and need and Sam's lips weren't so thin and cold against his. Giving and taking at the same time, pulling. And somewhere in the remnants of his consciousness, shivers of words like _'sick'_ and _'wrong'_ were floating up, but Dean buried them because this wasn't his brother. Because those shivers meant nothing compared to the real shivers of his body, from the damp of his clothes sticking to him, from Sam's wet jeans clad thigh, sliding between his leg, thrusting and sliding.

 

Dean _bites_ Sam, really _bites_ him and can swear he can taste blood, but Sam just laughs, groaning into the kiss, returning the force, the heat, the anger. And this is nothing like love. Nothing like the peace he wanted from Sammy, _for_ Sammy. He figured Sammy would be all roses, tender hugs and soft kisses. Chicory and lavender. But Sam. Sam was all thorns. Sam smelled like cinnamon and metal. Sharp and bitter, hair knotting around Dean's fingers, and Dean _pulls_. Pulls until he feels a lump come loose and Sam does tense at that, just a bit, just enough for Dean to smile and pull again. Because he knows Sam can take it. Knows that Sam won't break. That he'll take everything Dean throws at him because there's nothing inside of him to shatter. To be damaged. Because this Sam is nothing but hollow coldness inside.

 

Sam has Dean against the wall now, grinning like the smug bastard he is, his hands wrapped around Dean's wrists, gripping to lightly, with such power that it feels like he could really shatter the bones there. Break them like porcelain dolls. Sam is kissing Dean like it's going out of style. Not bothered at all that this is his _big brother_ and that he doesn't have a fucking soul and that the world is going to Hell and there's nothing they can do to stop it. Outside, the rain pounds against the windows, and inside, Sam is ripping Dean's clothes away from his body. Peeling away each damn layer and gripping at the skin there, hands hot, mapping out scars and leaving bruises.

 

Dean rips at Sam's shirt, pulling it to shreds and shoving Sam away, tipping the bottle of whiskey into his mouth, letting the burn drown away what he's doing. _'That's right'_ a phantom voice in his head sings _'Drink it all away'._ The burn fills his mouth, and moves into Sam's when Dean kisses the booze into him. Sam doesn't wince. The booze tastes cold in him, feels cold on him as Dean licks away traces of it from his chin and neck.

 

When Sam is naked and on his back, legs spread and skin illuminated by the moonlight and thunder, he looks up at Dean and smirks. “I knew you'd want this.” He says “I knew you couldn't stay away. Knew you'd want your _Sammy_ \--.”

 

Dean's fist stops him. Dean's fist punching across his face and spilling blood. Dean punching harder than he should have punched. Harder than he'd ever punched Sammy. Sam's hand reaches up to rub at the wound, and Dean stops it. Slapping him and leaning to place his mouth on the spot, kissing away the blood and biting at the bruise. And Sam laughs. Sam is laughing and Dean can't stop him. Can't make him understand why he shouldn't be laughing, because this hurts so much. Everything inside of him hurts _so_ _ **much**_ and Dean just needs Sam to know that. To feel that. Needs to _burn it_ into him. Leave it like a raw nerve.

 

After spit and fingers there's Dean's cock. Hard and throbbing, pushing deep into Sam. So deep he's afraid that something in him will break, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't stop because Sam's back is arching. Because Sam is grabbing at the sweaty skin of Dean's back, blunt nails scrambling for purchase and rocking against him. Enjoying this too much. More than he deserves to. Sucking on Dean's fingers when Dean holds pushes his face away from him, holding it down into the pillows. Not understanding that this is a punishment. A branding. A marking of where Dean should never go. Of all the things fucked up around him. That Dean was fucking him to break him. To hurt him like his mere existence burned Dean. Grabbing his cock and jerking to destroy him.

 

Sam comes apart first. Arching and groaning louder than Dean was expecting, teeth biting Dean hard enough to pierce skin, spurting hard and far.

 

But Dean, Dean disintegrates inside of Sam. Cries out and empties everything into him. All of the hurt and weight and heat and fucking hate he's been carrying around. Pouring into into Sam like liquid anger. Sam moans at the sensation, and Dean wonders if he is feeding off of it somehow, like an incubus, before going limp and falling forward, panting heavy and hard.

 

Outside, the rain still pours, and the thunder rolls. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, gripping the last few swallows of the whiskey. Behind him, Sam lets out an amused chuckle.

“That was the last time.” Dean says, simply. Not turning around. But he can feel Sam's smirk from behind. Feel the cocky shift of his body rolling on the mattress.

 

“No it wasn't.” Sam replies. And Dean thinks that it's the most truthful thing Sam has ever said to him. And he hates him for it. Because Dean knows the bastard is right. “You're gonna come up here, and you're going to suck my cock.”

 

And Sam is right, because Dean does.

 

X

 

The second time, Sam kisses Dean after a hunt. Up against the side of the motel Sam where Sam had just stabbed a girl to death that Dean _really_ hoped was possessed. The blood left smears on Dean's skin as Sam grabbed him and took. Took everything Dean had and drowned out the screaming in the back of Dean's head. The voice that was getting quitter each passing moment that shouted in the back of his mind that this was wrong. That this was his _brother_. That he should be pushing away and puking until his body shook.

 

But Sam was so overpowering, his body pressed against the warm brick. So warm as his mouth wrapped around Dean's dick. Sucking and nibbling and jerking until Dean was a whimpering mess, forgetting to lower his voice. Forgetting they're outside. That they've just committed _a fucking murder_ and that anyone could see them. But he's crying out. Shouting as he comes, his fingers tearing knots into Sam's hair. Hair that was also so long and soft like a fucking _girl_.

 

Sam stands up, wipes his mouth, and kisses Dean. Dean can still taste fledgling remnants of himself on Sam's tongue, and pulls Sam close. Can feel the hardness in Sam's pants. Reaches for it when Sam pulls away, heading towards the car. “We gotta go.”

 

Oh. Right. The girl. The body. One more thing they've gotta leave behind, like mile markers in the rear view.

 

X

 

Tequila somehow tastes sweeter when he's sucking it out of Sam's bellybutton. Lingers longer when he's licking it off Sam's cock. Hits harder when he's kissing it off of Sam's mouth. Numbs more when Sam's gripping him so hard he bruises. Fucking him so hard he screams.

 

X

 

Bobby calls. Says something about a way to get Sammy's soul out of Lucifer's cage. Sam bustles about, taking diligent notes, nodding along even though Bobby can't see him. Dean just stares.

 

Sam shoves their shit in the car, and they're on the road again.

 

X

 

In a motel in the middle of Montana, when Sam comes out of the shower, Dean hits him so hard over the head with a book it knocks him out. Dean cries and kisses him before leaving him on the floor.

 

X

 

In Iowa, Sam repays in kind. Only with a rock in the middle of a corn field. It takes Dean two whole days to catch up to him.

 

X

 

“Aren't you happy?” Sam asks, watching Dean zip his pants back up. Dean doesn't answer, only looks at him for a long moment. “You're gonna get Sammy back. Isn't that what you want?”

 

“Wipe the blood off your mouth.” Dean answers, before heading up the stairs from Bobby's dirt basement.

 

X

 

Sam is staring at him, from where he's strapped down on the bed. Apparently, it will _burn_. Burn inside of him like Dean had wanted to do. Like Dean always wants to do. Dean hovers in the doorway, watching Bobby and Cas and Death work, checking Sam's bonds and re-reading over books. Mixing ingredients.

 

Sam turns his head and smirks at him. And Dean can't help but recall the first time. Sam spread out in the bed before him, laughing. And Dean being so angry that all he wanted was to set the world on fire. Burn him to pieces.

 

And then how beautiful he looks in the moonlight. In the dark of a motel room to which they are never going to return. Stretched out in the back of the Impala. On the hood. Back arched and cock flush. The feel of his teeth and his curses and insults. The silence in Dean's brain when was with him. Inside of him.

 

Bobby suggests that Dean go upstairs. “You ain't gonna wanna see this, Son. Trust me.” And Dean does. Bobby is the father Dean and Sam never got. The one with open arms and hands and not fists. The one who taught him how to play baseball and fix just about anything.

 

Behind him, Sam's face is emotionless. Only half listening to Cas. Staring totally at Dean. Dean lifts the beer to his mouth, takes a swig, and turns to walk away.

 

“Good bye, Dean.”

 

X

 

Sammy sleeps for two weeks. Cas and Bobby worry that they've made a great mistake. That he will never wake up and that they've killed him. Done something terrible. Opened a wound inside of Sammy's head that can't be mended.

 

Dean thinks of Sam's wounds. About kissing them away and biting new ones. About punches and bruises and cracked ribs. About tossing everything to the wind and surviving purely on sex and rage.

 

He realizes a part of him doesn't want Sammy to wake up.

 

A part of him doesn't want Sammy to see those scars.

 

X

 

It's past midnight when Dean stands in Bobby's basement with a pillow. It would be quick. Sammy wouldn't even wake up. In the morning, they'd all just think he'd passed away from the spell. That the wall in his head didn't hold and Hell poured through his body, and he slipped away.

 

Dean's knees are on either side of Sam's body, pillow gripped tightly, when he pauses, because he can see remnants of a bite mark on his neck. Faint. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never see it. But Dean knows. And Dean remembers. And Dean can't help but lean down and kiss it.

 

And weep.

 

X

 

Sammy wakes on a Tuesday. Something in Dean's brain makes a comment about 'irony', but he doesn't pursue it. His limbs are unsteady as they wrap around Dean, gripping him in a hug that's so warm and soft and entirely _Sammy_ that Dean wants to die. Because he isn't that Dean anymore. The Dean that's capable of stopping after a few beers. The one who still thinks hunting makes him a hero. The Dean Sammy needs him to be.

 

X

 

“What's wrong?” Sammy asks, and Dean drops the fry that's in his hand back to his plate.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I mean... you've barely spoken to me since I've gotten back. You've been avoiding me like the plague...”

 

Because Dean can't look at Sammy and not see Sam spread out in front of him. Not remember the way _each and every_ patch of his skin tastes and feels. The way his breath hitches when Dean finds that spot inside of him. Can't help but trace fading scars and remember teeth and nails and broken beer bottles.

 

“Sorry.” Dean answers, turning away “I'm sorry.”

 

X

 

Sam comes back to Dean in his dreams one night. He tells him he is pathetic. And he is worthless as he is. “This is sad, really. Longing after kid bro.”

 

Dean really wants to punch him. Wants to reach up and grab him and kiss that smug look off his face.

 

“We're not done, Dean.” Sam says “You're not done.”

 

Dean wakes with tears in his eyes. The whiskey burns them away.

 

X

 

They're outside of Palo Alto when Sam pulls the Impala over to the side of the road. The sky is clear and the air is cool, and Dean is wondering why they've stopped when Sammy pulls the cooler out of the back seat and sits on the hood.

 

It's so nostalgic it makes Dean's heart ache.

 

There are no words, only a gentle clanking of bottles and the night sky. For hours. Behind him, Sammy is so still and quiet Dean thinks he may have fallen asleep, until he hears his voice.

 

“Close your eyes, Dean.”

 

And Dean does, because he's never been one to refuse an order. Because Sammy's never asked more of Dean than he's willing to give.

 

And everything is so silent for a moment that Dean wonders if Sammy has left him. Forgotten him. Run away from him like everything else seems to, when he feels it. The most gentle of caresses, and the sweetest taste he can imagine.

 

Sammy is kissing him.

 

His Sammy is kissing him.

 

Dean tenses, and moves to pull away when Sammy, eyes half-lidded “Baby, don't...” And Dean listens, because Dean has never been one to deny Sammy.

 

“I know.” Sammy says, “I know.” And in the back of Dean's mind there's a 'how?', but he doesn't push after it. Instead he wallows, floating in the gentle sway of Sammy's kisses.

 

Sammy tastes like the first Popsicle of summer. Smells like fresh cut grass. Feels like night air and silk running over Dean's body. Kissing at old scars and phantom pains. The metal of the Impala's hood is cold and unforgiving underneath Dean's knees as he pushes in, but Baby will hold. She always holds. And Sammy is just looking at him, beautiful and fucking glowing in the moonlight, trusting and open and so fucking _warm_ that Dean can't help but be overwhelmed with the feeling that he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve any of this.

 

But Sammy is shushing him and kissing him, needing Dean as much as Dean needs him.

 

When Sammy comes it tastes like cool apples and spring.

 

X

 

The sun hits them both, and they wake, chuckling. Realizing they've fallen asleep wrapped around each other, clothes long since abandoned. Sammy leans in to kiss the goosebumps off Dean's skin, and Dean just holds on.

 

“How?” Dean finally asks

 

“A little birdy told me.” Sammy says, by way of answer. Which doesn't actually answer anything until he makes a phantom gesture towards his head.

 

_'We're not done, Dean.'_

 

“I'm sorry.” Dean says, after a long beat.

 

“Why?” Sammy asks “I've always needed you, and you've always needed me.”

 

Dean's positive that doesn't answer anything, but for them. It works all the same.

 

“I had a dream.” Sammy says after a while “A nightmare.”

 

“Oh.” Is Dean's response. He'd almost forgotten what it was to worry about Sammy. “Oh.”

 

“Come over here and kiss it away.”

 

And Dean does. Because Dean's never been one to say 'no'. Because he's never been one to refuse an order.

 

And this time, Sammy tastes like tequila. Sweet. With just a touch of spice.

 

X

**Author's Note:**

> Spawned from a conversation I had with nooowestayandgetcaught on Tumblr. Title comes from Mikael's cello version of "Until We Bleed (featuring Lykke Li)"


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